Biggles and the Missing Scientists
by Biggles Mad
Summary: Ginger centric Biggles yarn. The youngest and arguably the prettiest of the comrades dons feminine garb as part of a scheme to catch the villains who are kidnapping leading scientists and their wives. Along the way, Erich gets his leg pulled. By HRH.
1. A dilemma for Ginger

**Biggles and the Missing Scientists**

**Chapter 1**

**A Dilemma for Ginger**

Air Police Constable 'Ginger' Hebblethwaite looked up briefly from filing some dossiers as his chief came in. One glance, however, at Air Detective Inspector Bigglesworth, better known to his friends and enemies alike as 'Biggles,' was enough to bring his gaze sharply back to his boss's face.

"What's up, Chief?" he asked familiarly, his curiosity aroused by the expression on Biggles' face.

Biggles regarded him speculatively and instead of answering, asked where Algy was.

"You've just missed him," replied Ginger, stuffing the last file into its resting place. "He's gone down to the airfield to have a word with Smyth about one of the Proctors. He wasn't expecting to be back for several hours. Why?"

Biggles sat down at his desk and motioned Ginger over. "Pull up a chair, I need to talk to you."

Puzzled, Ginger slammed the drawer of the filing cabinet shut and obediently drew up a chair facing Biggles, who seemed in no hurry to get to the point.

Ginger watched in silence as Biggles lit a cigarette and blew smoke at the ceiling, hiding his impatience and realising Biggles must have something unpalatable to tell him and was organising his thoughts to broach the subject.

"I have something to ask you," Biggles told him finally. Ginger nodded encouragingly, but Biggles was not to be hurried. "It's a matter of national importance, but you can say no if you don't think you can do it," he eventually stated, his eyes on Ginger's face.

"I can't say anything unless I know what you're talking about," Ginger pointed out with inexorable logic.

Biggles smiled briefly and nodded. "Alright, I'll tell you what the Air Commodore has just told me. Then you can make your mind up. Some time ago, a well-known scientist disappeared from a conference in Switzerland." As Ginger looked baffled, Biggles continued, "the whole thing was hushed up at the time. The Spanish Government - it was one of their chaps - paid the ransom and the scientist was returned, although he never produced any significant work in his field again."

Biggles tapped the ash from his cigarette. "Just a few months ago, the same thing happened again in Italy. This time it was a German. His Government refused to pay the ransom. The man's body was recovered yesterday, washed up on the Egyptian coast. It had been badly mutilated by crocodiles, but they identified him by his dental records, which was about all that was left of the skull."

Ginger looked shocked. "What has this to do with me?" he queried.

"I'm coming to that," Biggles told him. "Don't be so impatient. There is another conference organised for next month. The plan is that I impersonate the British delegate."

"Why you?" queried Ginger.

"They are all involved in aerospace research, one way or another," Biggles told him. He paused, looking Ginger squarely in the eyes. "In each case, the man's wife was accompanying him to the conference. She was kidnapped at the same time. The body of the German's wife was found roped to her husband's. The Spaniard has changed his line of work for fear of what the kidnappers will do to his wife. For the same reason, he won't give us any information about the kidnappers and of course," added Biggles grimly, "the German _can't_ talk."

Ginger drew in a deep breath. "That's awful!" he ejaculated, horrified. Then he began to suspect what Biggles was about to ask him.

"Just a minute. You aren't thinking of a repeat performance of Princess Lazu1, are you?" he asked cautiously, his eyes on Biggles' face. "You are, aren't you?" he accused, reading the answer in Biggles' gaze.

"I don't want to bring in an outsider who has no idea of the way we do things," Biggles told him apologetically. "Gaskin has offered me one of his WPCs, but I don't feel at all happy about that, for various reasons."

Ginger drew in a deep breath. "I don't know," he replied slowly. "This isn't quite the same thing, is it? I mean, presumably the women all get together while their men are at the conference." When Biggles nodded his confirmation, Ginger went on, "so I'd be trying to fool a lot of women at close range. Do you seriously think I could do that?"

Biggles regarded him steadily. "I have a great deal of confidence in your acting ability," he returned, "and Gaskin has offered to have one of his WPCs give you some tuition in the more esoteric matters of feminine ways," he smiled.

Ginger hesitated. "How long does the conference last?" he wanted to know.

"Five days," Biggles informed him.

Ginger pursed his lips. "That's a long time not to make a slip-up," he averred.

"I know that," returned Biggles. "There is no pressure on you. You are quite at liberty to say no."

"You said that before," Ginger reminded him, "but if I say no, you won't do it, will you?"

Biggles didn't answer and for a few moments there was silence as Ginger thought about what he was being asked to do.

"I'll tell the Air Commodore it's no go," decided Biggles, reaching for the telephone, but Ginger stopped him.

"I didn't say I wouldn't do it," he said reluctantly, "but you have to admit, it has come as a bit of a shock. Rather a bolt from the blue. Can I have a practice first?" he asked. "To test out how likely I am to fool people at close quarters. I don't want to make a mess of it. I mean, last time no one really saw me close up."

"That seems quite reasonable," answered Biggles. "After all, it's your neck on the line as well as mine if things go wrong."

"And," added Ginger dryly, "if I am going to get bumped off, I'd prefer it to happen in my own clothes!" He shook his head. "I must be mad," he muttered, "but if I can get away with it, I'll do it."

Biggles smiled, relieved. "Good lad! I'll tell the Air Commodore that, subject to successful trial, we can put the plans into operation and let Gaskin know that he can organise your instruction straight away." He reached for the telephone.

"And order a good strong pot of tea while you're about it," Ginger told him. "I feel in need of a drink!"

Biggles laughed as he complied.

1 See Biggles and the Noble Lord


	2. Preparations

**Chapter 2**

**Preparations**

Algy was briefed about the mission as soon as he returned from his visit to the airfield. He seemed highly amused, much to Ginger's indignation, and could not resist ribbing the young man. As Bertie was on leave visiting relatives who had a sheep farm in the Australian outback and would not be likely to return until well after the case had been resolved, one way or the other, at least Ginger was spared his facetious remarks, much to his relief.

More than once in the days that followed, Ginger regretted his decision but having once embarked on his role, as he liked to think of it, he felt unwilling to let everyone down by pulling out, although that remained an option should he fail the final test he had set himself. Indeed he threw himself into character with such gusto that at times Biggles found it hard not to smile.

WPC Wendy Newton, whom Gaskin had detailed to initiate Ginger into the ways of women, proved to be a pretty brunette with a good sense of humour; an invaluable asset, as Ginger frequently appreciated during his training. She was quick to put him at his ease with a joke which helped overcome his initial embarrassment. The fact that at first he never went outside the office in his new disguise gave him some comfort, although he knew that the crunch would have to come sometime.

Ginger had some natural advantages for the task he was about to undertake; his short, slim figure and virtually hairless, smooth skin presented few difficulties to passing as a woman, and his voice, a light tenor bordering on alto, was not deep, allowing him to use the upper registers of his range without sounding falsetto. Fortunately his hands, always a problem area for female impersonators, although rather square and not particularly elegant, were neither overly large nor especially masculine and the addition of long false nails did much to feminise them. Wearing high necked dresses and blouses masked the slight protuberance of his Adam's apple while his body was easily made more curvaceous by the addition of prostheses. As Wendy pointed out, the special brassiere was designed for women who had had a mastectomy following breast cancer and it would be no bad idea to put about that the same thing had happened to the British scientist's wife, which would also account for the wearing of a wig, since chemotherapy made one's hair fall out. Ginger thought that made a lot of sense and began to believe for the first time that the whole thing might have a chance of success.

After some initial difficulty, he learned to cope with the long, brilliantly painted false nails, and to put on make-up as expertly as if he had been born to it. Constant practice in tight skirts shortened his stride although he drew the line at acquiring a wiggle. "Just remember," he admonished his tutor severely as she encouraged him to feminise his walk, "I have to get back to normal after all this! I can soon stop wearing make-up and women's dresses, but I don't want to get into the habit of mincing everywhere!" She giggled and told him that he would probably get away without it. "As long as your body language is right," she told him, "no one will think about your not swinging your hips. Keep everybody's attention above your waist!" He laughed, feeling his cheeks go red.

Acquiring the right body language, however, did not come easily. Wendy drilled him more thoroughly than a Sergeant Major, knowing that his life might depend on getting it right. Ginger struggled to learn to know what to do with his hands, walk, sit, and stand elegantly and even alter his vocabulary and phrasing to become more "ladylike". The longer she spent in his company the more she got to like him. One day, as Ginger was exasperated at his failure to get things right, she looked at him sympathetically.

"You don't like doing this, do you?" she stated.

He sighed. "No, I really dislike it," he admitted, "but I'm not doing it for fun. Biggles wants me to do it, so I will, if it kills me."

She thought that there was more than a possibility that might happen if he were kidnapped and the deception discovered. "Why doesn't your boss want a woman to do it?" she asked, curious. "Doesn't he like women?"

Ginger smiled. "It's not that," he grinned. "He has an old-fashioned respect for them. I know that the modern woman likes to feel she can do everything a man can and better, but Biggles still feels they shouldn't be exposed to getting shot, knifed and blown up. Besides," he added, "he doesn't want to work with a stranger and I can sympathise with that. We've worked together so long now, we don't have to explain things to each other. We seem to be on the same wavelength and know what each other is thinking. That's important in our line of work."

Wendy had to agree and redoubled her efforts to transform him into a credible woman. With the deadline of the conference coming rapidly closer, she made him venture out. As she pointed out, he had to gain confidence in his role and he would only do that by proving he could fool strangers who were not in on the deception, no matter how sure he might be of being accepted by the people in the office.

She took him on a shopping trip and rather cruelly, he thought, made him do everything a woman might do in the circumstances. "It's for your own good," she told him as, his cheeks scarlet, he protested he couldn't possibly. "You might have to do it when you are on the case and you need to be able to handle it confidently." Seeing the logic of this he stopped protesting and resigned himself to going through every ordeal with as much confidence as he could muster.

At first, Ginger felt that everyone's eyes were on him, recognising him as an impostor. When no challenges came, even in the hitherto unknown territory of the ladies' powder room, he started to relax and believe in himself. He still could not take any pleasure in shopping, as Wendy obviously did, but he managed to simulate enough interest to get by, whatever his personal views on the cost of women's clothing. At the end of the day, Wendy was well satisfied that he would pass any test with flying colours.

"Well," she asked him as the taxi dropped them off outside his flat. "How do you feel? Confident enough to take a test?"

"Do you mean that wasn't it?" asked Ginger incredulously.

"No," she smiled. "I think your chief has something else lined up for you. No doubt he'll tell you himself." Ginger absent-mindedly put his hand towards his pocket to feel for the key, but remembered just in time and converted the action into smoothing the peplum of the smart, tailored suit he was wearing over his hips. Wendy looked at him admiringly, approving his quick thinking and watched him extract the key from the handbag he had slung over one shoulder. Together they went in and climbed the stairs. As they were about to enter the sitting room, Biggles' housekeeper came out of the kitchen and was outraged at the sight of two strangers standing unannounced in the hall.

"And just what are you doing here, young ladies?" she challenged them indignantly. "Who let you in? I didn't hear anyone ring."

Fortunately for Ginger, sparing his blushes at having to make an involved and embarrassing explanation, Biggles chose that moment to open the sitting room door.

"It's alright, Mrs Symes," he reassured the housekeeper. "I'm expecting them. I lent them a key and told them to come straight up." As Mrs Symes returned to her domain, grumbling about the folly of lending keys to strange women, he smiled at Ginger who had turned quite pale at the encounter. "I think you fooled Mrs Symes," he remarked, amused. "She didn't recognise you at all." He held open the door and ushered them through to the sitting room where Algy was already lounging in an arm chair by the fire.

"I must admit," Biggles continued, striving to keep his face straight and his voice serious, "you do look very fetching in that outfit, Ginger. It has the look of being very expensive. I hope you haven't exceeded the department's budget."

Algy laughed. Ginger glared at him in a very unladylike way and Wendy giggled. "He's had a hard day's shopping," she announced, putting her hand on his shoulder, "but he's done extremely well. I think he's ready for the final test."

"Do you feel you are?" Biggles asked his protégé.

"I suppose it's now or never," murmured Ginger. "We're running out of time."

"Then I'll set it up," agreed Biggles, and went to the hall to telephone. When he came back in he was smiling.

"That's all settled," he told Ginger. "You and I are going to have lunch with an old friend and another guest, neither of whom knows anything about what is going on, so if you succeed in fooling them you've passed. I'll introduce you as my cousin, just arrived up from the country." He turned to Algy and smilingly announced, "meet your new sister, Algy!"

Algy's jaw dropped. "My sister never looked as feminine as that!" he blurted. "She lived for her horses until one buried her when she was out on a bye day with the Heythrop two years ago and broke her neck! Half the time she was indistinguishable from the nags! You've seen pictures of her, Biggles, you know what she looked like!" They all laughed at his expression. Even Ginger had to smile.

"Well, the ugly duckling has turned into a swan," averred Biggles. He looked at Ginger and his lips twitched. "How do you like being Lady Virginia Lacey?"

"It's hard enough coping with being a woman," replied Ginger. "Why do I have to have a title as well?"

"Two reasons," Biggles told him. "In the first place, if you do make a mistake, people think aristocrats are a bit odd anyway .."

"Thanks a lot," muttered Algy.

"Secondly," Biggles continued with a withering glance at his cousin, "Lady Virginia actually existed until her unfortunate demise in the hunting field. It saves having to invent a person. It's unlikely anyone will have an up-to-date copy of Debrett's but if they do, we'll just say reports of your death are greatly exaggerated! It's happened before. You'd better get all the gen about your new persona from Algy before we turn in and make sure you're word perfect before tomorrow lunchtime when I've arranged the meeting. In the meantime, I'll see Wendy to a cab." So saying, he showed the young policewoman to the door and escorted her downstairs.

Ginger and Algy sat side by side on the sofa while Ginger made notes about Algy's late sister. He practised his answers to Algy's questions until they were both sure he was word perfect. Biggles, back from seeing Wendy off, watched them silently from the doorway as they were absorbed in their task. Ginger sat, knees together, ankles primly crossed, his head bent over his notebook. Algy was leaning over him, pointing something out in the biography. They might have really been brother and sister, thought Biggles, amazed at Ginger's transformation.

Ginger must have felt Biggles' eyes on him for he looked up. "What are we going to tell Mrs Symes?" he wanted to know. "Shall I spend the night as Virginia or myself? Who will come down to breakfast?" He shook his head ruefully. "If I'm not careful, I shan't know who I am!"

Biggles told him it was up to him. "In that case," exclaimed Ginger fervently, "I'll be me as long as I can!"

Later that night, in the privacy of his room, having stripped off his disguise, Ginger prepared to spend the last hours as himself for a while. If all went according to plan, he reflected, he could say goodbye to being himself for at least a week while Biggles was at the conference.

Before turning in, he took a last look in the mirror and told himself he could do it. The reflection that stared back at him seemed to belong to a stranger and to be somehow naked without the wig and make-up he had become accustomed to wearing.

He shrugged on his pyjamas and slid into bed, going over Wendy's advice and reminding himself of the character he was to play. The rehearsal was over, the performance was about to begin. He felt strange, keyed up. Hitherto, he had been able to slip out of character and revert to normal at the end of the day. Soon that would not be an option. Doubts assailed him. Eventually he fell asleep and dreamed of being unmasked and humiliated.


	3. Shocks for Ginger

**Chapter 3**

**Shocks for Ginger**

Biggles looked up as Ginger came down to breakfast the following morning. He took in the shadows under the lad's eyes and surmised that he had had a troubled night. Ginger was dressed casually, in slacks and a shirt, knowing he would have to change before lunch.

"I asked Wendy to drop by this morning. I thought we would make up a foursome for lunch," Biggles announced as the young man sat down and prepared to tuck in to his breakfast. Ginger nodded absent-mindedly, pre-occupied with the task ahead.

"Aha!" exclaimed Algy, breezing in. "The condemned man - or should that be woman?" he grinned, "eating a hearty last meal."

"Shut up, big brother!" snarled Ginger mock angrily.

Algy laughed. "You even sound like my sister," he said amused, as he pulled the marmalade within reach. "Ginny could never take a ribbing, either."

"That's enough, you two," expostulated Biggles. "Ginny … yes, I'd forgotten that." He looked at Ginger amused. "At least that shouldn't cause you too much confusion if we call you that. It's near enough Ginger!"

Wryly Ginger nodded. "One less thing to worry about, not responding to my name," he smiled but his eyes looked troubled.

"You can always pull out, you know," Biggles told him as if reading his mind.

Ginger shook his head. "Only if I fail this test and can't do it. These people have to be stopped."

That was so patently obvious that conversation lapsed and the rest of the meal was conducted in silence.

Shortly after the breakfast things had been cleared away, the doorbell rang and WPC Newton was ushered in by the housekeeper. They all stood up to greet her. Biggles and Algy watched in amazement as she and Ginger exchanged kisses on the cheek.

"Can I do that?" asked Algy eagerly.

"Not unless you're prepared to go through what Ginger's been through these past few days," Wendy told him. "It's a girl thing," she grinned. Ginger blushed.

"You know the test is: I've got to have lunch with a couple of people, including someone who's met me before, and fool them, don't you?" explained Ginger. "It'll be make or break time. Come into my bedroom and help me get dressed." His blush deepened as he realised what he had said but Wendy seemed completely unperturbed by his invitation and slipped her arm through his as they disappeared together.

Algy could scarcely believe his eyes and stared mesmerised at the closed bedroom door. "Some people have all the luck!" he muttered under his breath.

Biggles gazed at him in amazement. "Just what do you imagine he's getting up to in there?" he demanded with asperity. "Ginger's got his mind on his work - something you'd be better advised to do, too!"

Algy grinned sheepishly. After a few moments he spoke again. "She likes him," he observed à propos of nothing.

"Why shouldn't she?" asked Biggles surprised. "He's a nice boy. He's good looking, intelligent and has a pleasant personality. There's no reason for her not to like him, even if he is dressed as a woman," he added incongruously. "He's still Ginger."

Further discussion was curtailed by the emergence of the subjects of the conversation. Algy looked stunned at Ginger's appearance and even Biggles found it hard to recognise his protégé in the attractive young woman who was accompanying Wendy. The previous evening Ginger had looked business-like but rather plain in a severe, tailored suit and shoulder-length wig. Now, in a well-cut dress, a long, flowing blonde wig and some discreet jewellery, he looked strikingly glamorous.

Involuntarily Algy wolf-whistled, causing Ginger to colour slightly. "I don't think you'll have any problems passing the test, Ginger," he told him. "You would certainly fool me if I didn't know better. You'll have all the scientists at the conference envying Biggles."

"We've got to get to the conference, yet," Ginger reminded him. "Where are we going to have lunch? " he wanted to know.

"You'll cause a sensation at the Aero Club," remarked Algy maliciously.

"I'm not going there!" interjected Ginger quickly, turning pale. "If I'm recognised in this get-up, I shall never live it down!"

"I agree," concurred Biggles much to Ginger's relief. "We are not going to the Aero Club. There are far too many people who know us too well. You would attract all too much attention there, much of it the wrong sort, I've no doubt," he smiled wryly. "I've organised a table at the Ritz."

They all assented to this arrangement so Biggles rang to order a taxi.

They alighted at the famous hotel and made their way into the foyer, Algy escorting Wendy and Ginger on Biggles' arm. Concentrating on maintaining his character, Ginger took little notice of who was in the dining room until he had rounded the screen at the entrance and started looking for their table. Biggles felt Ginger stiffen beside him and grip his arm more tightly. "What is it?" he asked, "what's worrying you?"

"Not what," Ginger replied, his lips dry. "Who. Von Stalhein is sitting over by the window with a woman. He's seen us. I suppose he will think it very odd if we don't go over and talk to him."

"So he has," remarked Biggles imperturbably. "Yes, we shall have to go and have a word with him, if only to be polite." Biggles' eyes met Algy's and a glint of humour flashed between them, unappreciated by Ginger who felt sick with apprehension. He certainly felt in no mood to do justice to lunch, he reflected.

Ginger's heart sank at the prospect of facing the German, realising Biggles was right, but dreading meeting their former adversary in his present disguise. "Come on," Biggles encouraged him as he hesitated. "Put a brave face on it. I suggest you don't say too much once we've introduced you as Algy's sister."

Without further delay, Biggles steered the party over to the German's table and made the introductions. Von Stalhein stood to greet the ladies, bowed over their hands and clicked his heels in his usual Prussian manner. Ginger felt seized with an insane desire to laugh, but managed to control it.

Von Stalhein introduced his companion who turned out to be his sister, Elisabet, who was spending a few days with him on holiday from Berlin. Biggles made the introductions for Wendy. Algy, trying desperately hard to keep his voice steady and his face straight, did the same for Ginger.

"Ah," purred von Stalhein. "I am delighted to meet you at last, Lady Virginia. I understand you are a very keen horsewoman."

"I'm afraid my sister is recovering from a very bad bout of laryngitis," interposed Algy. "She hasn't quite got her voice back yet and finds talking very difficult."

Ginger flashed him a grateful look and nodded to von Stalhein.

"What a shame. I was looking forward to hearing about your hunting exploits," said von Stalhein, himself no mean horseman, with keen interest.

Ginger congratulated himself inwardly on his narrow escape, having already had one experience of von Stalhein talking horses while he constantly went in dread of discovery1, but the next moment his eyes widened in horror as the German continued, "but let us not stand on ceremony, Bigglesworth, do sit down. It was so good of you to arrange this lunch. To what do we owe the honour?" With a shock, Ginger realised the table had been set for six. This, then, was the test to which Biggles had referred. He thought he was going to faint.

"I wanted Lady Virginia to meet you," Biggles told von Stalhein, pulling out a chair for Ginger who sat down gratefully as his legs seemed to have turned to water. "She has heard so much about you and since she is only in town for a few days, it seemed an excellent opportunity. It's so unfortunate that she has lost her voice."

Von Stalhein looked round as if he was missing someone. "Where is your young friend Hebblethwaite?" he asked, pausing fractionally and taking great care over his pronunciation, but still stumbling very slightly over Ginger's surname. "Is he not going to join us? I do hope he is well."

'Not very,' thought Ginger, who was seated between Biggles and von Stalhein. He was not given to cursing but he thought of a few uncomplimentary names to call Biggles when they got back.

"Unfortunately, no," replied Biggles as though he could read Ginger's mind. "He's not at all himself at the moment," Biggles added with a hint of humour. "But I expect him to be back to normal soon. He sends his apologies."

"Ah," said von Stalhein. "We shall miss his ready wit. And Lord Lissie?"

"He's in Australia, visiting relations."

Von Stalhein nodded. "At least we have the lovely ladies to entertain us," he observed gallantly. He smiled at Ginger. "I am surprised we have not met before, Lady Virginia," he remarked. "I can't help feeling I know you from somewhere."

"It must be the family resemblance," put in Algy quickly.

"Perhaps that is it," concurred von Stalhein urbanely, looking from one to the other, "although your sister has been fortunate to receive more than her fair share of the family beauty."

'That's one in the eye for you, Algy,' thought Ginger, secretly enjoying Algy's discomfiture at the subtle insult disguised as a compliment. He stifled a laugh, knowing there is nothing so instantly recognisable, and turned it into a discreet cough.

"I see old habits die hard," chided Biggles gently. "I thought this was going to be a pleasant lunch. It's a pity to spoil it by scoring points. After all," he hinted meaningfully, "we don't get the chance to eat at the Ritz every day. It makes a dent in my budget."

Von Stalhein's cheeks flushed slightly as Biggles' point went home. "You are right," he acknowledged. "I regret the unfortunate way I phrased that remark."

"Then let's order," suggested Biggles and the next few minutes were taken up in perusing the menu. When they had all made their choices and Biggles, as host, had passed them on to the waiter, the conversation turned to more general matters.

Algy was profiting from the occasion to strike up a relationship with Wendy, but she was still able to devote enough time to von Stalhein to keep him from too close a scrutiny of his silent right-hand neighbour, although had good manners permitted, he clearly would have preferred to give more of his attention to the aristocrat than the working girl who sat on his left.

Biggles was intrigued to learn from von Stalhein that his nephew, Fritz, had a new career in the _Bundesmarine_.

Von Stalhein mentioned casually that his brother-in-law had been a naval officer. "He was based at Kiel, at the beginning of the war when I was in charge of Intelligence there2," he added. "He had a distinguished career in the _U-Bootwaffe_."

"Yes," sighed _Frau_ Lowenhardt wistfully, "my husband was awarded the _Ritterkreuz_ - the Knight's Cross," she explained for Wendy's benefit. "All that I could bring with me when I left East Berlin were his decorations and some of my jewellery. That, at least, was very useful in the difficult times after the war," she observed, sadly. "Fortunately," she added, fingering a diamond pendant at her neck, "Erich has always been very generous. Whenever he can, he sends me something."

"That's very nice," remarked Wendy, thinking it looked very expensive.

"A present from the Argentine3," supplied von Stalhein, with a sideways look at Biggles.

Biggles turned to von Stalhein's sister, who was sitting on his right. She bore a marked resemblance to her brother, being tall, slender and dark, with the same blue eyes and aristocratic features. "I hope you are enjoying your visit, _Frau_ Lowenhardt," he remarked in the hope of turning the conversation to a happier subject, as the entrées were served. "Have you been to London before?"

"Not for a long time. This is my first visit since Erich decided to make his home here. I wanted to see that he is comfortable," she told him, her excellent English just faintly accented.

When Biggles remarked on this, she smiled in a superior way. "Our mother was English; she was a Courtney, one of the Warwickshire Courtneys," she told him surprisingly. "And, of course, we had a Scottish nanny. They are the best, are they not?" she asked Algy who sat on her right.

"Ours was English," he replied defensively. "She was a Norland nanny. They don't come much better than that. Nanny Lacey served two generations of the family. It would have been three, but none of us has produced any heirs yet." He winked at Ginger.

"Was she a relation?" asked Elisabet. "That she had your surname, I mean."

Algy smiled indulgently as he explained. "No. Nannies to the aristocracy usually take their family's surname. I don't know what her own name was, we always knew her as Nanny Lacey."

"How odd," remarked Elisabet. "You English are so eccentric, and especially your aristocracy. Those of us fortunate enough to be included in the _Almanach de Gotha_ feel we have a duty to be responsible people."

"Ah," murmured Algy irrepressibly, "responsibility is so dull!"

"How English," remarked von Stalhein. "When you are not ruining your estates with wagering on horses you are riding them like fury after foxes." He smiled at Ginger. "Most charmingly, I'm sure," he added. "Is your sister still living at Merioneth Towers?" he asked Algy, apologising to Ginger for addressing the request to a third party, but explaining that he appreciated Lady Virginia found speaking difficult.

Elisabet Lowenhardt looked curiously at Ginger, clearly undecided whether she liked the interest her brother was showing in this English aristocrat. Ginger secretly had no doubt whatsoever; he did not like it at all.

"How did you know where my sister lived and that she was a keen rider to hounds?" asked Algy, curious that von Stalhein seemed so well informed when they knew next to nothing about his background.

"You forget I spent so long in the German Secret Service," von Stalhein reminded him, a steely glint in his eye. "We were both thorough and efficient. We believed one should always know everything about the enemy."

"Everything?" asked Algy aghast.

"Well," amended von Stalhein, smiling indulgently, with a suspicion of humour in his voice, "I had not realised your sister was quite so charming."

Ginger was not sure whether he was amused or horrified. "Ask him about his English mother," he whispered hoarsely in Biggles' ear, keeping up the pretence of having lost his voice. "I'm dying to know more."

Biggles put the question to von Stalhein who surprised the comrades by admitting that his father had met and fallen in love with his mother when she gave a private recital to the German Embassy in London during the time when he was serving as military attaché.

"She was a violinist," disclosed von Stalhein to their amazement. "She could have been a professional, except of course that such a career was unthinkable for one of her station and upbringing."

Ginger thought what a snob the man was. 'No wonder he takes such delight in seizing every opportunity to sneer at me,' he reflected. It gave him a sense of grim satisfaction at the thought of deceiving the German who prided himself on being ever wary and so efficient.

Now that the initial shock had worn off, Ginger was almost beginning to enjoy himself, although he hoped that von Stalhein would continue to act as an officer and a gentleman and not take his obvious curiosity about Algy's "sister" any further than that. As the minutes passed and they progressed to the pudding without the deception being discovered, he became more confident. The danger of being found out, he realised, added piquancy to the encounter, although his nerves were constantly at full stretch.

Coffee arrived to signal the ending of his ordeal. To his relief they did not linger over-long. Soon Biggles called for the bill and they all stood up ready to take their leave. Ginger caught Algy's eye as von Stalhein bowed and kissed Wendy's hand, not expecting that he would be accorded the same courtesy. When it happened it shook him. He did not dare look at the others for fear of giving himself away by laughing, it felt so incongruous. Von Stalhein must have taken his dropped gaze for shyness.

"_Gnadige_ Lady Virginia," murmured the German. "It has been so delightful to make your acquaintance. I hope I may be able to have the pleasure of your company for lunch again some time when you are next in London. I wish you a speedy recovery from your laryngitis. I feel sure we shall have a lot to talk about."

Ginger inclined his head gracefully, his eyes veiled by his long lashes, a slight smile playing on his discreetly made-up lips. Biggles and the others made their final farewells and they all left.

The doorman called them a taxi and was somewhat surprised to hear the men burst into loud gales of laughter as the vehicle drew away.

"I think we can safely say you've passed the test, Ginger," laughed Biggles wiping tears from his eyes. "Towards the end I thought von Stalhein was really quite smitten with you!" he teased.

"Words fail me," Ginger said, looking up at Biggles from under his long false eyelashes, an effect that even Biggles found disconcerting. "How could you do that to me?" He put his head in his hands and drew in a long, shuddering breath.

Wendy put her arm round his shoulders and hugged him. "Are you alright?" she asked him anxiously. "I thought you were wonderful."

Ginger looked up. He was shaking from reaction and had gone very pale. "It rocked me on my heels I can tell you when it dawned on me that having lunch with von Stalhein was your idea of a test," he told Biggles. "I expected any minute that he would recognise me and sneer, 'well, if it isn't our young friend with the difficult name. You really are not yourself today, are you?'"

The others hooted with laughter again. Ginger's impersonation of the German had been perfect.

1 See Ginger Learns A Lesson

2 See Biggles In The Baltic

3 See Biggles In The Argentine


	4. The plan comes together

**Chapter 4**

**The Plan Comes Together**

The test successfully completed, things began to move at a faster pace. Preparations were immediately put in hand for the English delegate to the next conference, which was taking place in Paris, to be withdrawn through illness, and for Biggles to replace him, with Ginger accredited as his wife. The necessary passes, paperwork and reservations were easily changed but in order to be able to pass himself off successfully as an aeronautical engineer, Biggles had to put in some intensive homework. As a pilot he had a working knowledge of aerodynamics, but not enough to pass as a highly respected scientist in that field. He hated deception but realised the necessity for it. His admiration for Ginger and what he had achieved was boundless. Biggles acknowledged that he had a horror of wearing any sort of disguise.

Ginger had been relieved to find that all the work he had put into mastering Lady Virginia's details was not wasted but was to be used for the role of the scientist's wife. In order to keep his hand in, he was continuing to have refresher sessions with Wendy, much to Algy's annoyance, because as he pointed out, although he had managed a successful impersonation once, it would not do to become complacent. When Algy had growled that it was just an excuse to be with Wendy, Ginger had laughed and teased him that they were just good friends. "Just two girls together!" he had protested, with a mischievous glint in his eye. Algy had remained unconvinced, remembering how Wendy had hugged Ginger in the taxi after the test was over, but the rivalry and badinage did not affect their friendship.

"I hate maths," Biggles observed to no one in particular, relaxing in his sitting room after the final day's concentrated study. "And physics comes a close second. Flying is all very well, but the finer points of what makes it work leave me cold." He lit a cigarette and drew on it appreciatively. "The best I'm hoping for," he commented to Ginger who was lounging in an armchair, his legs crossed, making the most of being released from the constrictions imposed by his feminine disguise, "is that I won't betray my ignorance."

"It's not my ignorance I'm hoping I won't betray," murmured Ginger with a smile, as he stretched luxuriously, appreciating the opportunity to wear his own clothes. He was the only other occupant of the flat that evening, Algy having taken Wendy to the cinema.

Biggles smiled back. "If I thought you couldn't do it, I wouldn't let you try," he admitted. His smile broadened as he thought back to the scene at the lunch table. "But after the way Erich reacted, I feel confident you'll have no problems - apart from beating off the attentions of the other delegates and incurring the jealousy of their wives," he added with a twinkle in his eye.

"Don't remind me! He was certainly intrigued!" exclaimed Ginger fervently. "That was a bit of a shocker about Erich's mother, wasn't it?" he remarked pensively. "And that bit about her being a Courtney - didn't Bertie once say his aunt was married to a Courtney? If it's the same family, that would make him and von Stalhein distant cousins! I wonder if they are? Perhaps that's what they mean by a cousin-german," he speculated with a grin.

His speculation was cut short by the arrival of Algy and discussion turned to the film he had been to see.

"I shouldn't bother with it, if I were you, Biggles," opined Algy in disgust. "The way some of these film directors carry on, they wouldn't know realism if it stood up and socked 'em in the face. Anachronisms, time travel! Huh! We shall have 'em turning men into women soon," he added with a sly look at Ginger.

"I take it the evening wasn't a success, then," remarked Biggles.

"Oh, the evening was a tremendous success," averred Algy turning a broad smile in Ginger's direction, accompanied by a wink, "but the film was dreadful!"

Ginger spoiled his game by refusing to rise to the bait. Instead he stood up and announced: "I'm off to bed after I've done my packing. That's a job I would _not_ like to leave to Mrs Symes," he commented with a wry grin. "I suspect she's beginning to think there's something not quite right with me," he added. "She's been giving me some very funny looks just lately!" He grinned ruefully. "I think she must have noticed when I accidentally left the false eyelashes on that time."

"Never mind," Biggles told him reassuringly. "It should all be over soon. We leave for the conference tomorrow. I, for one, shall be glad to get cracking. All this preparation is straining my nerves. Heavens knows how you must feel! I've arranged it with Marcel that he will be attached to the security side of things in Paris. It will be handy having some extra back up." He laughed softly at the expression on Ginger's face. "Don't worry," he added, soothingly, "I've warned him about you, so you won't have to fend off his Gallic attentions as well!"

"I really should not have agreed to this!" averred Ginger as he headed for his bedroom. "It's turning into a nightmare!"

He heard his companions chuckle as he closed the door.


	5. Quick work

**Chapter 5**

**Quick Work**

When Biggles and Ginger disembarked from the British Airways BAe 111 the following morning at a rainy and depressing Charles de Gaulle, they were met by a representative of the conference organisers, given name badges and escorted into an arrivals lounge to await the American delegate whose aircraft had been delayed. The main party had already gone ahead to the hotel, but as it was not expected to be more than half an hour before the New York plane landed, it was decided to hold the later arrivals until they could all be transferred together.

Ginger, sticking close to Biggles, covertly surveyed the rest of the party. They were a mixed bunch, he thought. Only a few of them conformed to his idea of a top scientist, he realised. Many of them he thought were surprisingly young to be eminent in their field and not all of the scientists were accompanied. Ginger eyed the wives with especial interest as he was likely to be spending most of his time with them. They ranged in age from their mid-twenties to mid-forties and came in all shapes and sizes from the sylph-like model to the comfortably upholstered mother figure. Some of them had already struck up an acquaintance, having met at previous conferences, or discovered a common language or common interest through photographs of their children.

The men tended to drift into groups and were either carrying on from where they left off at the last conference or, if this was their first appearance, discussing recent papers. Biggles blessed the thoroughness of his briefing; at least what they were discussing made sense, he thought, although he doubted he would make an original contribution to the general body of scientific knowledge.

Ginger was hovering, wondering how he could break the ice and gain admittance to the women's circle when he realised that a pretty blonde was reading his name badge. She was tall, athletic and had startling blue eyes. Seeing that he had noticed her, she read his alias aloud in an attractive Scandinavian accent.

"Lady?" she asked. "Why do they write that on your label? You are not a man?"

'That's a good start!' thought Ginger, startled, but realised that she was curious rather than accusing. "It's a title," he explained, slipping into the character of Algy's sister. "Like Mrs. My father is an earl." At least the ice had been broken, he thought, because Greta, as she was called, then wanted to know what that meant and the conversation progressed from there. Her husband, Bent Petersen, worked on jet engines and they lived in Stockholm. She did not normally accompany him to conferences, she told Ginger, but the organisers had arranged to have the children cared for so that she could have a holiday in Paris, a city she had always wanted to see. She had not wanted to leave them, but the organisers had been so insistent and she did want to see the French capital so much.

She prattled on happily to Ginger's delight, relieving him of the necessity to say much. Although what she told him gave him food for thought, he did his best to look interested and make suitable comments when she showed him the photographs of her family. In response to her question, he replied that he did not have any children; he was newly married. Biggles and he had discussed this tricky subject and decided that being on honeymoon was the best way of explaining any possible lack of knowledge of each other's more intimate habits. Having established an entrée, Ginger started sounding out the others about what had made them decide to come to Paris.

Biggles, seeing that Ginger was occupied, attached himself to one of the larger groups and started to make the acquaintance of his fellow delegates. Thanks to the homework he had done, he found quite a few of their names and Institutions familiar.

There was a stir at the entrance as the American delegate and his wife arrived, complaining loudly about the delays and the weather. The American physicist, Cyrus P Markham III according to the name badge that was handed to him, was short, overweight and balding. In his preparation for the mission, Biggles had read several of his papers and knew that there was a shrewd brain behind the horn-rimmed glasses that concealed pale grey eyes. His wife was a blowsy peroxide blonde who was also carrying several pounds of excess baggage about her person. They breezed into their respective groups like a hurricane through the Pacific.

Mary-Lou soon had all the wives organised and talking to each other. Ginger marvelled at her bossiness. Clearly she spent a lot of time at conferences and had the routine down to a fine art. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that her husband was doing the same for the men's group. It seemed like only a matter of moments before they were embarking on the shuttle service en route for the hotel.

Ginger hoped desperately that Biggles would come and sit beside him because he wanted a word about the arrangements for the following day and to let him know about what Greta had told him, which he felt was suspicious, but he saw Mrs Markham ("call me Mary-Lou, honey," she had admonished him for being formal) moving to head Biggles off and thought his luck was out.

"They're on their honeymoon," Greta called out as Mary-Lou insisted that Biggles sit by her. "They should be together."

"Waal, in that case," drawled Mary-Lou expansively, slapping Biggles on the shoulder, "go to it, boy!"

Biggles shuddered inwardly and sank down gratefully beside Ginger. "What an awful creature," he breathed. "Her husband isn't quite so bad."

"Lean this way a bit," whispered Ginger quietly. "I think I might have a possible lead. If we've got our heads together no one will hear and Mary-Lou will think we're making the most of our honeymoon."

"I wonder if that was such a wise idea after all," mused Biggles, his eyes on the brassy American who seemed to have turned her attention to one of the Swiss delegates.

"It's saved you from having to sit next to her, at least," Ginger pointed out with a smile, "and what could be more natural than to bring your new wife along? Anyway," he continued, "listen to this," and he proceeded to tell Biggles what Greta had told him. "She is the only one who has had any pressure applied. I made discreet enquiries of the others. They were all either coming anyway, or made a last minute decision to attend. Obviously I don't know about the ones that have already gone on to the hotel, and it may be nothing," he concluded, "but on the other hand, if anybody is intending to kidnap them, that could be a reason for insisting she accompanies her husband. It would be a lot easier to grab them both if they are together."

"You could be right," admitted Biggles. "I'll try to make sure he and I are in the same seminars and you'd better try to keep with her. Do you know what is planned for tomorrow?"

"There's a tour of the _Louvre_," stated Ginger, consulting a sheet of paper in the folder he, like all the wives, had been given. "And then a trip along the Seine in a _bateau-mouche_." He looked up and saw Mary-Lou watching them. "Ah, Paris! How romantic!" he exclaimed loudly and put his head on Biggles shoulder.

"Don't overdo it!" Biggles warned him tersely and felt Ginger shake with suppressed laughter.

"Serves you right for setting me up with von Stalhein!" muttered Ginger into Biggles' lapel. "That was a dirty trick! I nearly died of shock. If Algy hadn't said I'd lost my voice, I would have been speechless anyway," he gurgled, appreciating the humour in the situation now he was looking back on it from a safe distance.

Biggles also saw the funny side of it and started to laugh as well. For the benefit of any interested spectators he announced, "that's what I love about you, your sense of humour!"

They were still laughing when the coach drew up outside the hotel.


	6. A miss is as good as a mile

**Chapter 6**

**A Miss Is As Good As A Mile**

The following morning, after breakfast in their room, they came down to the foyer together to find the delegates sorting themselves out.

Biggles nudged Ginger. "Look," he murmured, indicating the man behind the reception desk, "there's Marcel. Wait here, I'm going to have a word with him."

As he went across to the desk, Mary-Lou came across and plumped herself down in a chair next to Ginger. In her usual brash manner she pumped him for as much information as she could, but he kept parrying her queries, cool but polite. In the end she looked at him hard. "I guess you British are just kinda reserved, ain't ya, honey?" she observed before moving off to inflict herself on one of the others.

Biggles came back. "What did she want?" he asked.

"To know everything there was to know about us," Ginger replied, thoughtfully. "I can't make up my mind if it's just natural nosiness or she thinks we're phoney. What did Marcel say?"

Unfortunately, he never had time to find out as the tour guide announced the departure of the coach and he was swept up in the general exodus.

Biggles joined the other delegates for the first paper of the session. Petersen filed into the conference room ahead of him, and Biggles took a seat at the end of the row, next to the window, where he could keep him in sight. The speaker may well have been excellent, Biggles felt he was in no position to judge, but the time hung heavy. He felt his eyes beginning to close. Struggling to keep awake, he looked at the other delegates. They seemed to be suffering from the same problem. The speaker's face seemed to be dark. He saw two men advancing down the centre aisle and their faces seemed to be dark, too.

Alarm bells rang in his head as he struggled to make his sluggish limbs obey him. Time seemed to stop. Everything happened in slow motion. Feeling he was walking through treacle he dragged himself to the window, thankful that it was only feet away, although it seemed more like a mile to his stupefied brain. 'If this doesn't open,' he thought, 'I might as well have stayed in London.' He struggled with the catch, the strength fading from his fingers. Just as he thought it would be too late, he felt it spring open and a rush of cold air struck him in the face. He gulped in draughts of refreshing clean air and felt his head clear.

Out of the corner of his eye as he hung over the windowsill, gasping, he glimpsed a figure being dragged out of the room. Still groggy, but with his strength returning by the minute, Biggles made after them. He passed Petersen slumped in his seat and experienced a moment's surprise. If not Petersen, he wondered, then who was being abducted? He wasted no time on idle speculation but plunged on. The door led to a long corridor. At the far end, a dumpy figure was being manhandled through the entrance to the street where a car was waiting. Biggles summoned all his reserves of energy to try to close the gap.

He almost made it. He reached the street just as the car door slammed and the Peugeot saloon shot off with a screech of tyres. Automatically he memorised the number plate. Not having any form of transport there was nothing he could do to follow them so he made his way back to reception to let Marcel know what had happened and ask him to get the commissariat to set up a search for the car.

He found Marcel surrounded by several groggy delegates, all talking at once. Biggles caught his arm and drew him to one side to give him the details of the getaway car the kidnappers had used. Marcel telephoned the commissariat immediately, but did not hold out much hope, expressing the opinion that it was probably stolen and would quickly be abandoned.

"Who is missing, have they found out yet?" asked Biggles.

The answer surprised him. "Professor Markham - the third," Marcel informed him with an emphasis on the ordinal. He looked at Biggles and waved his hand up and down in a typically French gesture. "Oh la, la, if they 'ave kidnap 'is wife, they 'ave my sympathy!"

Privately, Biggles thought Marcel's observation was a fair comment. He wondered how Ginger was faring and what method the kidnappers might use to secure the voluble Mary-Lou. He was worried that, like him, Ginger would not be expecting the American to be abducted and might be caught on the hop.


	7. Ginger misses the boat

**Chapter 7**

**Ginger Misses The Boat**

Unaware of the events unfolding back at the hotel, Ginger stuck like glue to Mrs Petersen. He was helped by the fact that she seemed to like his company but it irritated him that he also seemed to attract Mary-Lou Markham like a wasp to a honey pot and try as he might, he could not shake her off. His reticence and reserve under her barrage of questions had clearly piqued her curiosity. Or perhaps, he thought, like many Americans, she was intrigued by a title. He bitterly regretted Biggles' idea of his impersonating Algy's sister.

They toured the _Louvre_ in a large group with a guide, imbibing the cultural atmosphere and finishing by admiring the Venus de Milo and the Mona Lisa.

"Gee, it's kinda small," observed Mary-Lou loudly as they looked at the painting, thus somewhat unfairly reinforcing Ginger's mental stereotype of Americans on cultural tours, since it was a not uncommon reaction on first seeing the masterpiece.

When they left the museum and art gallery a coach transferred them to the quay from which the pleasure trip was to depart. Ginger was relieved to be able to get some respite from the American who was trying his patience, as for some reason best known to herself she decided to forsake him and sit at the back. He chose a seat near the front and was not worried that Greta had also moved to the back of the coach. Nothing was likely to happen while they were cooped up together like this, he thought, the danger would probably come when they were on the street, or transferring to the boat, but he tried to maintain his vigilance nonetheless. He slipped his shoes off to ease his aching feet. The heels he was wearing were not high, but they were slightly higher than he was used to and after being on his feet most of the morning he was beginning to feel the strain in his calf muscles.

On such small details do important things often depend. If Ginger had not been delayed finding his right shoe, which had worked its way under the seat in front, he would not have been close to Mary-Lou when the kidnappers struck.

As it was, he left the coach just behind the American and was about to overtake her to catch up Greta Petersen when he was pushed roughly aside by two men who seized Mary-Lou by the arms and dragged her towards a waiting car.

Startled, he leaped forward and clung on to one of the men. While they struggled Mary-Lou fought the other abductor like a demon. She was fumbling in her handbag but had it knocked out of her hands.

"_Dépêchez-vous_! _Amenez-les_, _toutes les deux_! _Ne gaspillez pas le temps_! _Allez_! _Allez_!" cried a voice from the car and Ginger found himself being bundled into the back seat along with the American. He put up only a token resistance as that suited his purpose very well. He was pushed violently onto the seat beside Mary-Lou and the second kidnapper crammed in beside him. He was short and swarthy with a livid scar on his right cheek. To Ginger's disgust, he reeked of garlic.

The doors were slammed and the car roared off. Ginger did not know Paris all that well, but he could work out that they were headed north. Several times his heart was in his mouth as they narrowly escaped collisions in the heavy traffic. Mary-Lou, after protesting loudly and being told in heavily accented English to shut up, subsided.

Ginger asked in his best French what would happen to them, but got a similar response to Mary-Lou, except that it was given in the same language as he had used to ask the question.

There was silence for some minutes before Mary-Lou soberly thanked him for trying to help and asked him tentatively what he thought would happen.

Ginger confessed frankly that he had no idea but he supposed that the kidnappers would ask for a ransom. To his dismay, Mary-Lou started to cry. "My poor Cy," she wailed. "Whatever will he do without me?"

Ginger was at a loss to answer her. Eventually she stopped sobbing, much to his relief. He tried to get his thoughts in order. Surely the wrong person had been taken, he told himself. Then it struck him that perhaps after all it was their reasoning that was at fault. If it had been sheer coincidence about Greta, Mary-Lou was the right victim after all. In that case, he pondered, Biggles would be shadowing the wrong man, just has he had concentrated on the wrong woman.

They had reached the northern _périférique_ and were still heading generally north. Ginger tried to picture the area as he had flown over it in order to get some idea of their possible destination. He recognised the signs for Clichy and St Denis and then realised they were headed for Rouen. At first he had thought they might be making for Beauvais where he knew there was an airfield, having used it several times, but that hope was dashed as they turned off the A16. Then he remembered Boos and the small aero-club field near the Norman city.

They would have to be hidden somewhere, he thought. What better way to get them out of the country than by air, otherwise they would have stayed on the motorway and made all speed for the frontier. It would have been a simple matter to keep them quiet at the toll booths. At least one of the kidnappers was armed, he knew, having seen the handle of a pistol protruding from a holster under the armpit of the man sitting next to him, although no weapon had been brandished so far.

He settled back to watch the road and eventually his conjecture was confirmed as they turned in through the white-painted wire mesh gates that led to the small airfield and drove up to a hangar.

"Get out!" ordered the man in the front passenger seat, gesturing with a small automatic.

They complied and stood next to the car. The driver remained in his seat. The taller of the two kidnappers, the man who had been sitting in the front passenger seat, looked at his watch. "_Merde_!" he exclaimed, which Ginger took to mean either that he was expecting someone who had not yet turned up or that they had taken much longer to get to their destination than expected. Judging by the speed at which they had travelled, he thought the former supposition more likely.

"_Ils sont en retard_," remarked the man with the scar, which confirmed for Ginger that they were indeed waiting for others to turn up, but whether the expected party would arrive by land or air he had no way of knowing. He wondered how long they would be kept standing around and whether there might be any opportunity of getting a message to Biggles.

He looked round. The airfield seemed to be deserted. In the hangar by which they were standing he could just glimpse a small single-engined monoplane. With the distinctive V angle of its tail planes he recognised it as a Beechcraft Bonanza. He was just about to ask if he could go inside, although he knew it was unlikely that he would be allowed to, when the sound of a car being hard driven reached their ears. He also thought he heard the far-off clatter of rotors, but although he looked up, he could not see anything.

"_Enfin_!" exclaimed the taller kidnapper and walked forward to meet the Peugeot that raced through the gates. After the car had screeched to a halt there was a rapid discussion in French which Ginger had difficulty following, but which he thought had something to do with his unexpected presence on the scene. He got the distinct impression that the newcomers were not pleased to find an extra captive as it threw out their calculations, while his abductors were justifying their actions in terms of extra ransom and the exigencies of the circumstances at the time of the snatch. He watched with interest to see which way the balance swung.

If they were not greedy enough to want the extra ransom he represented, he thought, he could be disposed of quite easily in the back of the hangar and dropped out of the Bonanza over the sea. After much argument and shrugging of shoulders, the verdict seemed to go his way. 'Thank heavens for greed,' he thought. He still fancied he could hear rotor blades and scanned the sky quickly. Far away, he saw a helicopter, low down on the horizon, that seemed to be making for Le Havre.

The occupants all got out of the Peugeot. When Professor Markham heaved himself out, his wife yelled, "Cy!" and rushed over to hug him. He seemed equally glad to see her and gave her a bear hug in return.

One of the new arrivals, a broad-shouldered man with a dapper moustache walked over to the hangar and started opening the doors. Ginger wondered if he was the pilot.

He watched as the aircraft was wheeled out and the man with the moustache did the visual pre-flight checks. Ginger thought it would be interesting to say the least if the pilot had not done much flying in a heavily laden Bonanza before. He looked at Professor and Mrs Markham and estimated that they each weighed at least 170lbs. The pilot looked about 150lbs and he himself weighed just under 130. He knew that the fuel was in front of the empty centre of gravity and the loaded CG would burn aft. In theory, therefore, the two people who should be sitting in the back seats were the only ones who knew how to pilot the plane - unless the Professor and his wife had a licence. It left him with a dilemma. Should he say nothing and allow a potentially lethal situation to develop, or should he protest and reveal that he could fly? He decided to say nothing for the moment and see how things developed.

It was the professor, actually a rocket specialist but like many Americans familiar with light aircraft although not a pilot himself, who provided the solution to the problem by commenting that one of his friends had a machine like that. "Chuck won't take four people in it," he pointed out. "He says it makes the balance go crazy. He told me it's to do with the shape of the tail. How are they going to manage the three of us and the pilot? Hey buddy!" he called to the pilot. "You done your calculations? You know how much we all weigh?"

Just to make sure the message got home, Ginger translated it into French. Clearly the pilot had not appreciated the situation before, because when it had been pointed out to him and the weight and gravity problem became apparent, there was a rapid consultation among the gang. Opinion seemed to be sharply divided. Ginger thought ironically as they argued amongst themselves that he was the one person whom it would not be any advantage to leave behind, as he was the lightest.


	8. A friend in need

**Chapter 8**

**A Friend In Need**

When Biggles gave Marcel the registration number of the car he was not really hopeful of having any success in tracing it, either. Like Marcel, he thought it had probably been stolen, but by a stroke of fate, the speeding Peugeot driver, in his haste to get to his destination, had nearly caused an accident. One of the cars which had been involved in the near miss was driven by a policeman on his way to start his shift, who had noted the registration number as a matter of course. When Marcel's request came through, he was able to give the last known position, time and direction. If they had driven that far, it was unlikely that they would be changing cars.

"_Bon_," grunted Marcel when the information came through. "We go, _mon vieux_."

"Go where?" queried Biggles.

"Orly," was Marcel's reply. "I 'ave an _hélicoptère_. We go follow them."

"There are an awful lot of red Peugeots about," pointed out Biggles. How are you going to know which one is the one we want?"

"I know the road she travels, the direction - and the speed," Marcel told him. "Even if she turn from the main road, I think we find 'er."

"Lead on, then," said Biggles. "It beats hanging about here. I'd rather be doing something than nothing."

Just as they were about to set off for the airport the telephone rang and Marcel was called over to the desk. He listened intently and nodded several times. Biggles heard him say, "_Oui_, _oui_, _mon capitaine_. _Tout de suite_! _A bientôt_!"

When he came back to Biggles he looked sombre. "That was Capitaine Joudrier," he told him. "Mme Markham 'as been kidnapped." He paused for effect. "And Ginger 'as been taken also!"

"Then let's not waste any more time!" Biggles urged him.

The drive to Orly was hair-raising. Marcel obviously took Biggles' injunction literally; every corner was cut and every opportunity to overtake was seized, no matter how narrow the margin of safety. All this while the engine screamed in top gear straining at maximum revs. When they finally screeched to a halt outside the police hangar, Biggles figuratively breathed a sigh of relief, but he was grateful for the speed of the journey. The car had a good head start on them and he was afraid that they may not be able to pick it up, despite Marcel's confidence.

The helicopter stood on the hard-standing, awaiting their arrival. The rotors were turning slowly on idle as the mechanics did last minute checks. Marcel had a quick word with his boss, Capitaine Joudrier, checked the flight plan and then they soared into the sky in search of one red Peugeot among so many.

Marcel swung the machine north-west. "The last report say she is 'eading for Rouen," he told Biggles. "We must see 'er before then, or we lose 'er in the town. Also, this is for you," he said, handing Biggles an automatic. "You might need it."

Biggles took the weapon and put it in his pocket. "Thanks," he muttered above the noise of the engine. "You never know." He looked down at the busy road systems underneath the machine as it clattered towards Normandy. Every second car seemed to be red, he thought. The task was hopeless. Nothing seemed to be driving particularly recklessly - no more than was usual for French roads, thought Biggles cynically, his nerves still feeling frayed after the journey to the airport with Marcel.

When Marcel told him there was a pair of binoculars stowed under the seat he fished them out and began a surveillance of the swiftly moving traffic. Suddenly, as his gaze swept across the A13, he saw a red car cut sharply in front of another as it took the exit onto the N15. He focussed the glasses carefully to check the make. It was a Peugeot. He could scarcely believe their luck. There could hardly be two red cars of that make heading in the right direction and breaking every traffic law in the book, he thought. That would be _too_ much of a coincidence.

"I've got them!" he exclaimed and described the location for Marcel. The helicopter's nose turned towards the _Route Nationale_.

"Don't get too close," warned Biggles, "I don't want them to know they've been spotted."

Marcel confirmed that he had identified the car and the helicopter swung away, putting more distance between them and their quarry.

Biggles watched them through the field glasses. The car was slowing down as it neared the town. Suddenly it turned sharp right and raced across to a long, lofty building that was all too familiar to Biggles.

"It's gone into the airfield!" he exclaimed, watching as the car drew up with dust or gravel spurting from beneath its wheels. "Stand off towards the west, Marcel. We don't want them getting suspicious."

Marcel changed course and began to lose height. Biggles could see three figures, a man and two women, standing by a stationary car and trained the glasses on them. He thought he recognised Ginger's disguise among them. Moments later, he was certain as he saw the slim blonde's upturned face looking for the machine. Tersely he informed Marcel.

"_Tiens_!" exclaimed the Frenchman as the machine put more distance between them and the airfield. "What are your plans?"

Biggles was still observing the scene as best he could. "They seem to be pulling a light plane out," he informed Marcel. "We mustn't let them get away. They could go anywhere." He thought for a moment. "Swing round in a wide arc and come back from the other direction."

As Marcel complied, Biggles was thinking hard. Owing to the distance and low altitude, he had not been able to see enough to identify the light aircraft, but it would probably have enough range and capacity to take the hostages and captors well over the border, he surmised.

"They've seen me and might recognise me," he told Marcel. "They would only have got a glimpse as I ran after them, but it might be enough. They shouldn't know you, though," he added. "When we come up to the airfield from the south-east, I want you to make it sound as though you're having engine trouble. As anybody who knows anything about helicopters realises, you'll have to get down and fast! I'll hide in the back and get out the far side once you're down on the deck. Go over to them and ask for help; that's a perfectly natural reaction. We'll have to take it from there and see how things develop, but I want to get Ginger and the hostages away safely and nab the crooks before they can escape."

Marcel nodded. "Leave it to me," he acknowledged, as Biggles clambered into the back of the machine.


	9. The plan comes unstuck

**Chapter 9**

**The plan comes unstuck**

Ginger watched as the gang argued among themselves. They seemed so intense about their discussion, he thought he would try to edge away but the little man with the scar spotted his movement. With a leer, he drew his pistol and motioned him back.

Ginger felt completely at a loss how to proceed. He thought about trying to seize the plane, but he did not think he could manage to get the portly Americans across the intervening stretch of tarmac and into the confined cabin fast enough. The gang would shoot them before they could get away. Besides, the professor and his wife were clearly in no condition to do any sprinting. He thought any violent exertion on their part would probably bring on a heart attack.

As he was turning over various possibilities in his mind, he became aware of the sound of a helicopter again. This time the sound was getting louder. It must be coming up from the south-east, Ginger surmised, as despite his best efforts, he could not see it for the bulk of the hangar.

His ears pricked as he heard the loud bang of a backfire and the note of the engine and rotors changed. The gang heard it too. They drew their guns at the sound of the explosion, but the pilot spoke rapidly and they relaxed. Ginger saw him move across to get an unrestricted view of the aircraft, which, it now became obvious, was going to come into land. What he said Ginger was too far away to hear, but the effect was obviously one of consternation. The tall man who had been in the front seat when they had been kidnapped got back into the car that had brought Ginger and Mrs Markham, next to the driver. The man with the scar came across and by gestures made the hostages understand that they were to get into the Bonanza.

Mary-Lou began to protest but her husband persuaded her to co-operate and they all clambered into the small aircraft. Ginger had severe misgivings about the wisdom of what the kidnappers proposed. He hoped they did not intend to make a long flight as the problem with the distribution of weight would only get worse as the fuel burned away.

The pilot waited as the helicopter swept in to land in front of the hangar. Whether by accident or design, the incoming machine seemed to be about to land in the path of the light plane. The driver of the Peugeot, who had been about to leave following the other car, quickly drove into the space and the helicopter jinked sharply, eventually coming to rest on the hard-standing in front of the open hangar doors. A man jumped out and began to hurry over. The pilot of the Bonanza, wasting no time, started the engine and began to taxi onto the airstrip as the car drove off to clear his way. The pilot of the helicopter, whom Ginger now recognised as Marcel, ran back to his machine with the obvious intention of following them.

The car driver, however, whose quick thinking had prevented the helicopter landing to obstruct the light plane, had a further part to play in the drama, although whether it was intentional or not, was hard to say. In swinging round to make his getaway, he clipped the tail rotor of the helicopter with the roof of the car. Marcel switched off immediately, jumped out and arrested the man before he could get the car started again and drive away. As the Bonanza lifted off, Ginger could see him almost dancing with fury and frustration. Biggles was standing beside him, philosophically watching the plane recede.

When Biggles saw the Bonanza take off he felt frustrated and annoyed by the stroke of misfortune that had incapacitated the helicopter, but unlike Marcel, he allowed no sign of his feelings to show. The best he could do was note the course the light aircraft took. On that heading, he thought, they might be headed for North Africa.

"_Zut_!" exclaimed Marcel when he had vented his anger. "We 'ave lost them!"

"We know their heading," stated Biggles. "Get the radar to watch out for them. Keep a listening watch as well in case they transmit. They might be flying too low to be picked up."

He looked uneasy. "I hope Ginger is alright. I should never have let him take this on."

Marcel looked at him surprised. "That is not like you," he opined. "You always say to regret is not worth the trouble."

Biggles smiled wryly as he lit a cigarette. "Perhaps I'm getting too old for this lark. I ought to let someone younger take over."

"You would not be 'appy _à la retraite_," averred Marcel sagely. "You would be bored."

Biggles laughed softly. "You could be right," he admitted. "Let's get on and organise some transport."

As soon as they had returned to Paris Biggles asked Marcel to check up on any radar sitings. When the Frenchman came back, he was smiling. "We 'ave tracked them in the Rhone valley," he announced. "And just to be sure, they 'ave been sending messages by radio also. They say they are 'eading for Frejorgues."

Biggles looked blank and asked where it was. "Near Montpellier," was the answer. "Not far from_ la Camargue_."

Biggles expressed the opinion that he was surprised they had not headed straight for North Africa. They had the range.

Marcel's next words filled him with foreboding for Ginger's safety.

"They 'are in trouble," said the Frenchman. "They are 'aving difficulty with the aircraft. They must land."

"Did they say what sort of trouble?" Biggles wanted to know.

"Only that they could not make it over the sea."

"Let's get down there straight away," urged Biggles. "Do you have another helicopter available?"

"It would be faster to take one of the Cessnas," stated Marcel. Biggles agreed but added that they did not know what they might meet and the helicopter's ability to get down in a tight spot was invaluable.

Marcel shrugged and said he would arrange it.

It seemed like an age to Biggles before they were actually in the air and heading south on the trail of the Bonanza, but there had not been a particularly protracted delay. He put it down to anxiety over Ginger and told himself again that he was getting too old for the game. They had been in worse situations than this in the past, he told himself and had always come through.

The Rhone valley reeled away beneath them. Marcel remarked that the forecasters were warning of a Mistral. "It is not strong yet," he added, "but they say it will get worse."

"At least it will help us along," declared Biggles. "I don't feel happy that they have got such a head start on us. Have they reached Frejorgues yet?"

Marcel spoke on the radio. He looked puzzled. "There is no sign of them," he informed Biggles. "No Bonanza 'as landed there for several days."

"They must have crashed," conjectured Biggles. He looked pale. "We'll have to make a sweep either side of their projected heading and see if we can spot them."

He pulled the binoculars out from the compartment under the seat and prepared to make a thorough surveillance as soon as Marcel started the search pattern. The country they were flying over was not suitable for forced landings and Biggles hoped that they had got down safely where it flattened out, nearer the sea.

Marcel quartered the last known track, always moving the search south. Biggles' keen gaze swept the ground. Eventually, as Marcel swung the helicopter towards Frejorgues, Biggles spotted a gleam of white among the scrub of the wilderness that eventually became the Camargue, the land of black bulls and white horses, gypsies and salt pans.

Biggles clutched Marcel's arm. "I think I've spotted them," he announced tersely. "Ten o'clock, just between a minor road and a stretch of water. Can you see it?"

Marcel turned the helicopter for a better view and allowed that he could. "It seems to be okay," he ventured. "They did not, 'ow you say? crack up."

"No," replied Biggles, relieved, "but I can't see anyone with the aircraft. What could have happened to them?"

"We shall not know from 'ere, _mon vieux_," stated Marcel and brought the helicopter round with the intention of landing near the Bonanza.

"Be careful, Marcel," warned Biggles. "We know they are armed. I don't want anything to happen to the hostages."

"Don't worry, my old cabbage," Marcel reassured him. "Ginger will be okay."

Biggles renewed his surveillance of the scene with extra vigilance, but there was no sign of life anywhere.

"You'd better take her down, Marcel," he opined. "We shan't learn any more here. Perhaps we'll get some inkling when we land."

Marcel set the machine down beside the stranded Bonanza and they both got out. The wind was getting stronger.


	10. What happened to Ginger

**Chapter 10**

**What Happened To Ginger**

When the little machine lifted off and banked away, Ginger lost sight of his comrades as the airfield faded astern.

He knew, from looking at the instruments over the pilot's shoulder, that the aircraft was headed south. The control sensitivity of the laden Bonanza was already apparent, and he felt they were in for an uncomfortable journey if no worse. He hoped the man in the right hand seat was no ham-fisted amateur. Drop a wing and the aircraft would just smoothly roll into a spiral dive and the pilot would need to _push_ on the yoke when he levelled the wings or the plane would pull a lot of g when all the horizontal component of lift in the spiral became vertical.

As the flight progressed the centre of gravity moved noticeably aft. It was clear the pilot was having more difficulty keeping the aircraft in trim. Ginger moistened his lips. He was seldom afraid when flying, but he was more than uneasy about the situation he found himself in now. He knew things could only get worse.

By the time they had passed Nimes, the pilot had finally decided that landing was their only chance. He appeared to be torn between landing at Frejorgues or Marignane. The former was nearer and Marignane was a busy airport, so he made up his mind to go for Frejorgues. Unfortunately he had left it too late. The nose crept up, and the aircraft started to stall.

Ginger grabbed Mary-Lou. "Get forward!" he told her desperately. "Sit on your husband's lap, I don't care, but move your weight nearer the nose!"

She looked at him as though he was mad, but the urgency in his voice moved her. Clumsily she tried to squeeze through to the front seat. The pilot, struggling to control the plane, was relieved to find that even the slight shift helped.

It was touch and go. The aircraft flew at just above stalling speed, the angle of attack near critical. Ginger was grateful that the machine would normally fly very well with gear and flaps down at 60kts.

They did not reach the airfield. Levelling out over the marshy lands that eventually form the Camargue, the aircraft suddenly sank like a stone and slammed onto the ground. Fortunately the area was flat and the landing gear, being over-designed for the single-engined aircraft, stood up to the rough treatment.

Ginger breathed a sigh of relief. 'Any landing you can walk away from is a good landing,' he thought. Ten minutes ago he would not have given much for their chances.

'What now?' he wondered. The pilot had been talking on the radio, presumably with the other members of the gang. Would they come and pick them up? If they did not have another aircraft at their disposal they would be a long time coming, he surmised. Could he, with the professor's help, overpower the pilot before they arrived? As if the man could read his mind, their captor produced an automatic and gestured for them to get out of the machine.

When they had all descended, Ginger looked around. The area was flat, with occasional scrub. There was no cover anywhere. Although the sun was shining, the wind was chill. He supposed the Mistral was getting up. He felt tired and sat down with his back to the wheel faring, but he was not allowed to rest. The pilot motioned him to get up.

Ginger told him, in French, that he could understand if he spoke to him, he was going to co-operate and there was no need to threaten him with a gun. The man acknowledged the information and informed him that they would have to walk.

"I'm tired, too," moaned Mary-Lou. "And hungry. What ya gonna do to us?"

Ginger put the same question in French but received little useful information in return. They had to walk. There was a _gardien_'s hut about a mile further on. They would rest there, their captor informed them.

They left the Bonanza where it had come to rest and made their way round the edge of the _étang_ near which they had landed. Footsore and weary Ginger slogged along with the rest of his party. The professor and his wife were in worse case than him, he thought. At least he was young and fit and used to this sort of life. It must be a severe strain on their overweight bodies, used to sedentary lives as they were, he mused.

It took them almost an hour to cover the mile. Mary-Lou complained all the way and wanted frequent stops to rest. Ginger felt tempted to tell her to save her breath for walking, but restrained himself. He felt profoundly relieved when the hut finally came in sight.

Once inside, they all sat down gratefully. The professor looked very red in the face and Mary-Lou was not much better. They were both puffing from their exertions.

Ginger allowed himself to sink down, his back against the wall. He was very hungry. He had not noticed it until now, but with the temporary respite from anxiety and action, he felt it gnawing at his vitals. He mentioned this to his captor and was told that there was some food in the cupboard. Rousing himself, he got Mary-Lou to her feet to help him prepare something.

The food was not appetising, consisting as it did of tins of meat and vegetables, but when made up into a sort of stew, it was at least nutritious. Ginger ate his portion, grateful for the chance to assuage the hunger pangs. He felt much better once he had eaten.

He persuaded Mary-Lou to help him wash up the dishes after the meal. She looked at his hands.

"I thought those fingernails were false," she commented, seeing his denuded finger tips.

Ginger regarded his hands. "I ride a lot," he explained. "Long fingernails get in the way and are easily broken, but I like to look elegant when I'm dressed up."

She looked him up and down. Despite the difficulties of the situation, he still looked quite smart. "You sure do that, honey," she reassured him.

The pilot evidently thought so too, for when Mary-Lou had returned to her husband and Ginger was just putting the last of the crockery away, he came over and started to talk to him. With a shock, Ginger realised the man was making advances to him and his mouth went dry as he realised the danger of his situation. It left him in something of a quandary as he did not want to encourage the man for fear of where it might lead. He doubted very much that his French was good enough to keep complete control of the situation. On the other hand, he thought, it was an opportunity that he ought not to pass up as, if the man had his mind on other things, he might relax his guard. Cautiously, Ginger began to play along.

When the pilot put his arm around his waist, Ginger's initial reaction was to push him away, but then it occurred to him that this might be the opportunity to catch the man unaware and seize his gun that he had been hoping for.

Forcing a smile, he put his hands on the man's hips, discreetly feeling for the pistol. He had just managed to get his fingers round the butt when his wrist was seized in a painful grip, as the pilot, enraged, discovered the deception. The two of them struggled and Ginger managed to get the gun clear, but his wrist was still held and his fingers were growing numb.

Ginger battled desperately with his opponent. He was considerably lighter than his assailant and he knew that if he did not get control of the gun soon, he would lose the fight with possibly disastrous consequences. He felt his strength beginning to fail.

Mary-Lou, seeing what was happening, went to his aid and added her not inconsiderable weight to the contest. The result of this unexpected intervention was to cause the pilot to lose his balance and reel back, breaking his hold on Ginger. By sheer bad fortune, it also caused Ginger to let go of the weapon and in the confusion the gun went off.

Ginger felt a heavy blow to his chest and a sharp pain in his ribs. He staggered back, hit his head and collapsed unconscious. The last thing he heard before he passed out was Mary-Lou screaming.


	11. Biggles sorts it out

**Chapter 11**

**Biggles Sorts It Out**

When Biggles and Marcel landed beside the Bonanza, they were hoping that Ginger might have found some way of leaving a clue to the hostages' whereabouts.

"If I know Ginger," averred Biggles, "he'll do his best to let us know where they've gone. Have a look in the plane and see if there's anything there."

Marcel scrambled inside the light aircraft, but there was nothing there. No clues and, more reassuringly, no signs of any of the occupants having been injured.

He jumped down and reported his findings to Biggles who had been scouring the ground around the plane for any signs. He found a few footprints but the light sandy soil was being blown about by the incipient Mistral and any traces were fast being obliterated.

Suddenly a small flash of colour caught his eye. He went across and picked it up. It was a brightly coloured false fingernail. He smiled and held it out to show Marcel.

"I knew he would find a way," he commented. "Let's look for some false fingernails. We'll have to be quick or they'll soon be blown away in this wind."

It was slow work. The trail was only slight although Ginger had obviously done his best to drag his feet and leave as much trace as he could without arousing suspicion and the items they were searching for were very small. At irregular intervals, Biggles found one of the pieces of colourful plastic planted in the ground. He surmised that the party must have had to stop for some reason, giving Ginger the opportunity to leave a clue.

They must have travelled getting on for a mile, when Biggles noticed a gleam of light in the distance. He touched Marcel on the arm and pointed.

"What's that?" he asked, unfamiliar with the area.

Marcel thought it might be a hut which was provided for the use of the _gardiens_, the horsemen who tended the black bulls.

"The trail seems to lead that way," observed Biggles. "Let's go and check it out."

Stealthily they made their way across to the hut and stopped beneath the lighted window. Biggles peered inside and was just in time to see the struggle and the shot that felled Ginger. Marcel went pale as he heard a scream follow the report of the gun.

"_Mon Dieu_!" he exclaimed. "What is 'appening?"

Biggles did not answer. Without stopping to think, he drew his own pistol and flung the door open. As the pilot freed himself from Mary-Lou and stepped forward to bend over Ginger's inert body, Biggles shot him. The way he dropped left no room for doubt. Biggles had shot to kill not disable.

Marcel looked at him surprised. He knew Biggles hated violence and killing, but there had been an expression on his face as he shot Ginger's assailant that Marcel had never seen before.

Mary-Lou was still screaming like a factory whistle. Marcel slapped her across the face as Biggles went across to where Ginger lay, blood seeping below his left breast, and knelt beside the young man, his face nearly as white as his protégé's. Mary-Lou shut her mouth and the noise stopped. The silence that followed was almost tangible.

"_Comment va-t-il_?" asked Marcel anxiously as Biggles felt for Ginger's pulse.

"Still alive, thank goodness," was Biggles' relieved answer. "Get the first aid kit out of the machine. Hurry!" he urged as Marcel set off.

"What are you doing here?" asked the professor in astonishment as he recognised Biggles. Then, anxiously, "How's your wife? Is she going to be alright?"

"What?" asked Biggles, still stunned by the shock of seeing Ginger shot. "Yes," he answered, pulling himself together, "I think so."

There was the sound of a helicopter landing as Marcel put the machine down next to the hut, realising that it would be the quickest way of bringing help, especially if Ginger needed to be taken to hospital.

Biggles heard it and told the Americans to go and wait in the machine.

"There's nothing you can do here," he told them. "I'll take care of everything." He started to undo Ginger's clothing to examine the wound.

Marcel passed the American couple in the doorway as they headed for the helicopter and he brought Biggles the first aid kit. He suddenly heard Biggles laugh and thought he had cracked under the strain.

"What is it, _mon ami_?" he asked his colleague. "Shock?"

"No," answered Biggles with a smile. "Relief. Look!"

Marcel bent over and saw that Biggles had removed the bra Ginger had been wearing. The heavy under-wiring needed to keep its shape had taken most of the impact and deflected the bullet. By the time it had reached his skin, much of the force had been dissipated. Ginger had a long, shallow wound along his ribs and heavy bruising just under his breast, but the injury was nothing like as bad as it had appeared and was not life-threatening.

"He'll be a bit sore for a while," commented Biggles, "but it could have been a lot worse. When I saw him shot like that, I thought he was dead. He's got a lump on his head. He must have hit it when he fell," he added, "which is why he's unconscious."

He dressed the wound and replaced Ginger's clothing, remarking that as they had come that far, they might as well keep up the pretence a little longer.

Ginger took a while to come round. When he did he still looked very confused. Biggles told him to take it easy, suspecting he was concussed.

"What happened?" he croaked. Biggles gave him a drink of water and filled him in with everything that had happened since the Bonanza had taken off from Rouen.

Ginger closed his eyes again only to find Biggles shaking him roughly awake. "Concentrate," Biggles told him. "You've hit your head. You're probably concussed and almost certainly suffering from shock. If you go to sleep now, you've had it. You've got to stay awake."

Marcel came over with a cup of strong, black coffee. "I put a lot of sugar in it," he told them. "That is good for shock."

Ginger struggled to drink the hot, sickly beverage, but felt better afterwards. With Biggles' and Marcel's help he was able to walk back to the helicopter.

The flight back to Paris was uneventful, except that Mary-Lou kept patting Ginger on the hand and telling him how brave he had been and he fought a constant battle to hide how sick he felt.

Biggles contacted Algy to bring the Auster over so that Ginger could go straight home and resume his normal existence. When they touched down at Orly, Algy was waiting for them.

"Take hi - your sister home, Algy," Biggles told him as he handed Ginger over to Algy's care. "Did you bring a change of clothes as I suggested?" he asked.

When Algy confirmed he had, Biggles continued, "a quick change of clothes, then, and a check-up at the hospital, I think," he advised.

Algy nodded, understanding, and helped Ginger into the machine. Biggles watched them take off on the short trip to England, knowing that when they arrived Ginger would be much more comfortable in his normal attire and he could safely leave it to Algy to see that he got any medical care he needed.


	12. Tying up the loose ends

**Chapter 12**

**Tying Up The Loose Ends**

Ginger was sent safely back to England where he spent a couple of days in hospital under observation, the Americans were returned to the conference and the kidnap attempt had been successfully foiled. There remained very little left to do after that and Marcel handled all the paperwork generated by the mission.

The driver of the car that had thwarted their first rescue attempt by driving into the tail rotor made a full confession and implicated his former accomplices, allowing Marcel to set the wheels in motion to round up the gang, which was completed within a couple of weeks.

The pilot was buried after a short inquest that fortunately did not stir up any trouble for Biggles, who could justifiably have been said to have used unreasonable force. The general consensus of opinion was that the kidnapper had got what he deserved and Biggles had no quarrel with that.

Algy continued to see Wendy on and off for a while, but with the pressure of their respective jobs and lacking the spice that had been injected by his rivalry with Ginger, who no longer needed to keep the WPC's company, the relationship eventually died a natural death.

Ginger soon made a full recovery and resumed his former existence with a profound sigh of relief. As he remarked to Biggles one day a week or so later, when they were sitting in the office with Algy, "if I ever get tempted to play the part of a woman again, I'll just need to touch this scar and that should remind me to think better of it!"

Biggles thought back to the moment when he had believed the young man had been killed and told him with heart-felt sincerity in his voice that he would never ask him again. "If the Air Commodore suggests it another time," remarked Biggles, "I'll tell him to do it himself!"

"Now that would be a sight to see!" declared Ginger with a broad grin. The image of the Air Commodore in a skirt and high heels sent them all into fits of laughter. Ginger winced and hugged his ribs, still finding them painful, but it did not diminish his mirth.

"What ho!" announced a sun-tanned Bertie coming into the office, having just landed after his return from leave. "Have I missed something?"

He looked mystified as his comrades convulsed with laughter again. "It's a long story," Biggles informed him, wiping tears from his eyes. "We'll tell you later."


End file.
